


Of Metamorphoses, and Other Things

by Anaid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, a little bit of angst?, mild drug abuse, return!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaid/pseuds/Anaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>met·a·mor·pho·ses (noun, plural):  a series of profound changes in form from one stage to the next in the life history of an organism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Metamorphoses, and Other Things

**Author's Note:**

> well, here i go! my first foray into writing for sherlock, as well as writing in a style that i, personally, am not used to. welp. unbeta'd, so i hope it's not too too terrible. it's also a little on the short side, so....

  
 

 

 

  
**xxxxx**  

Sherlock Holmes comes back from the dead with slurred speech and a bottle clenched in his fist.

John catches him as he falls heavy in the doorway, confused and angry, and the solid weight of Sherlock's body is the first thing he actually feels in three years.

 

**xxxxx**

Half an hour later, John's got Sherlock cleaned up and sitting on the couch, a mug of tea shoved between his (thin, too thin, when did he last _eat?_ ) hands. He watches John move about with bleary eyes, his hair thick and knotted across his forehead.

"I'm sorry," he says.

John says nothing and goes upstairs, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  
**xxxxx  
**  

Not long after that, John catches Sherlock rubbing white powder into his gums.

To his credit, John doesn't get angry. He doesn't scream, or shout, or berate, or cry. He plucks the packet out of Sherlock's hands and flushes its contents down the sink, watching as the granules get sucked down the drain.

The detective hovers behind him, his form pale and hollow in the mirror. "I'm sorry," he says, but his voice is beginning to get unusually droopy around the edges.

John walks out the door. He's late for his shift at the A&E.

 

  
**xxxxx**  

(John doesn't find cocaine in the flat again.)

  
**xxxxx  
**  

Two weeks pass before Sherlock is allowed to go back to solving cases.

He hooks his scarf around his neck with bony fingers and calls out to John that there's a case, there's _finally_ a case, a triple murder in Sussex with no feasible motivation and they're _needed_ \--

John shakes his head. "No. Not right now. Sorry."

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, before he's gone with a whirl of his coat.

**xxxxx**

Sherlock comes back to the flat twenty minutes later, sporting a  black eye.

John makes a mental note to buy Lestrade an extra pint at the pub next time they go out.

**xxxxx**

John is forced awake that night by the sound of Sherlock retching.

He makes his way to the bathroom with heavy footsteps and finds Sherlock curled around the toilet, his back to John. His scapulae and vertebrae and ribs stick out sharply against his pale, sweat skin. He's shaking violently.

Withdrawal, John thinks. He grasps Sherlock's thin shoulder and pulls him to his feet. Sherlock slumps against him as John hauls him back to his bedroom.

  
**xxxxx**

John wraps a blanket around his shoulders and gives him paracetamol. Sherlock's still shaking and his hair is stuck to his forehead by sweat. He curls up on his side, and John's gaze fixes on the way Sherlock's fingers wrap delicately around the edge of the blanket. He looks bony and small.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, and his voice is throaty, and raw, and he means it.

John reaches out and cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He doesn't know why.

"It's fine," John says, "it's all fine." And he means it.

 

**xxxxx**

The next day passes much the same way.

Sherlock spends his time either hunched over a toilet or wrapped up in his room. It's just withdrawal, John knows--just Sherlock's body reasserting itself, homeostasis hard at work--but it is ugly and it reaches into John's chest and squeezes.

When he brings Sherlock tea, the detective grabs his wrist.

"I missed you," he whispers.

John's chest _aches._

**xxxxx  
**  

The withdrawal passes and John wakes one morning to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, his phone in one hand and his scarf in the other.

"Will you come?" Sherlock asks. His eyes are bright and glittering, and there's a little voice in the back of John's mind that whispers _don't_ and _very  not good_ and _trouble._

John has never listened to that little voice before, and he doesn't intend to start now.

**xxxxx  
  
**

Seeing Sherlock back at work is exhilirating.

He spins around the bodies with glee, attacking evidence and Anderson and anyone who dares to get in his way. His cheeks are flushed and his tongue is quick and his cheekbones are razor-sharp above the upturned collar of his coat.

They run through the streets chasing the suspect, and at the end of it--Sherlock's got a bloody gash above his eye and John's wrist is sprained--Sherlock turns to him and grins, small and secret.

John tries to not fall back in love, and fails miserably.

**xxxxx  
**  

John ushers Sherlock into the bathroom the minute they return to Baker Street.

The wound on his forehead isn't as deep as it is long, and John is thankful for that. Sherlock remains silent while John stitches him back together. When John is done, Sherlock reaches out and cradles John's face in his hands. It's an awkward fit--his hands are long and lean, and John's face is stout and square. His fingers can't decide if they want to skim John's cheeks or curl around his jaw, and they try to do both at the same time.

"Thank you," Sherlock says.

John leans forward and kisses him.

**xxxxx  
**  

Sherlock kisses back.

He crowds into John's space desperately, kisses him like John's water and he's dying of thirst. It's dizzying, and John reaches up to touch Sherlock's face. His fingers accidentally brush against the newly-stitched skin.

Sherlock flinches away, and just like that, the kiss is over. They stare at each other, breathing heavily, and the universe around them shifts for now and for forever.

"Thank you," Sherlock says again, and it means _for letting me in, for fixing me, for tolerating me, for bringing me back._

John runs gentle, steady fingers just under the wound on Sherlock's forehead. "You're welcome," he says, and it means _always._


End file.
